


His Last Show

by annabagnell



Series: On The House [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Birth, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Surrogacy, graphic birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So how long do you think you’ll manage to keep this up?” John inquired, working at Sherlock’s ankles idly. </p><p>“Hopefully, until they’re born, if I’m lucky,” Sherlock replied, pushing a long finger against a bulging knee or elbow and wincing as it receded. “I’ll be down to one show a week, by then, but it’ll be the main attraction. Packed house, larger cut of the door and tips. The bigger I am, the better the pay. They’ll start marketing me as ‘overdue’ in about eight weeks, just because it’ll pull hordes of horny Alphas through the door.” He shook his head wryly. </p><p>“It’d get me through the door,” John agreed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Last Show

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place directly after On The House, so if the beginning seems abrupt, go back and reread that fic. :) 
> 
> A commission! If you want to commission me, go to annabagnell.tumblr.com/commissions.

As it turned out, Sherlock stayed the whole day in John’s flat, and they ordered takeaway and John gave him foot-rubs and they watched crap telly and in general, enjoyed Sherlock’s day off. The Omega wasn’t one to swap stories about his past, John learned, and didn’t pry when Sherlock’s one- or two-word answers seemed to be all that was forthcoming. 

 

The dark-haired man didn’t seem to mind, however, when John divulged information or shared bits about his life - actually, he rather seemed to enjoy piecing together the ex-soldier’s life, adding bits and pieces as John went - things he ‘deduced’, a word John had never heard before but hoped to hear far more frequently in the future. 

 

Nightfall loomed when Sherlock finally mumbled something about going home, and even though he’d been expecting it, John’s heart fell out the bottom of his chest as he helped the gravid man to his feet. Helpfully repacking his duffel, John kept silent as Sherlock located any clothing or belongings that had become scattered about John’s small flat, handing them to the Alpha to pack away. Only when the bag was finally zipped, and Sherlock was standing by the door, did John decide to speak. 

 

“You’re, um. Welcome back, anytime, even if you just want to grab a Chinese or something,” he offered timidly, holding the Omega’s duffel out for him to take. 

 

“I’ll take you to one not far from here, next time,” Sherlock replied without hesitation, and John felt a small spark grow in his chest. “You can always tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door-handle.” 

 

Sherlock left then, leaving John contemplating whether to give Sherlock a hug or a handshake or a simple wave, and he settled for an awkward ‘thanks again’ as the door closed. He heard a muffled snort of laughter from the other side of the door, and decided not to think too hard about whether it was derisive or amused. 

 

His mobile buzzed not three minutes later. _You’re an idiot. SH_

 

John frowned and tapped out a reply. _I’m sorry? What did I do?_

 

_You should sign your texts. SH_

 

_You know who I am, obviously, you texted first._

 

_You should sign them anyhow. And exactly - I texted first. You didn’t even think to give me your number. SH_

 

_Well, I saw you pissing with my mobile earlier, when you thought I was actually watching that horrible telly show. I assumed you were putting your number in. How do I set my text signature?_

 

_I’m surprised your sister didn’t show you when she gave it to you. I’ll show you tomorrow, when we meet for dinner. SH_

 

_Oh. Right. Okay. Where are we meeting?_

 

_7 pm, at the Chinese two blocks down from your flat. SH_

 

John sent an affirmative reply and sagged back against the wall, a silly grin plastered across his face. His mobile buzzed one more time. 

 

_And I’m coming back to yours after. SH_

 

* * *

 

 

“How have I never eaten here before?” John asked, mouth full of what was easily the most delicious Chinese food he’d ever had. 

 

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock replied, and John laughed. “But don’t worry, almost everyone is. These little hole-in-the-wall Chinese places tend to be the best ones - that’s how they last out the chain restaurants that come and go. People just ignore them because they look so run-down. In reality, it’s because they’re so busy they rarely care to tidy up and pick up more business than they can handle,” Sherlock explained, pushing a slice of chicken around in his rice before stabbing a forkful of both and eating it with gusto. 

 

“Well, then I am an idiot,” John responded with an easy grin. “I’ve passed by this place more times than I can count, and never looked at it twice.” 

 

“Like I said, you’re an idiot,” repeated Sherlock, and John pointed his fork at Sherlock with a mock-frown. 

 

“You don’t have to be an arse about it,” he said, barely holding in a smile. “I might not be as sharp as you, Sherlock Bloody Holmes, but I bet I know things you don’t,” he challenged. 

 

“Oh really?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking dubious. 

 

“Have you ever had your arms elbow-deep in someone’s body, holding an artery closed and keeping them from bleeding out while they lay screaming on the operating table?” John asked, and Sherlock blinked. “And later that day, saved a group of soldiers from stepping on an IED because you were able to see the patterns in the sand around where the enemy forces had buried it?” Sherlock blinked again. “I thought not,” John said triumphantly, settling back in his chair and taking another forkful of his beef. 

 

“Army doctor, then,” Sherlock replied at length. “I knew there was military involvement somewhere - I could see it in the way you hold yourself - but I didn’t know where you had served. Had I looked at your wrists last night, I would’ve seen it earlier, but I’ll admit I was distracted at the time.” 

 

John started wringing his palms over his wrists subconsciously, looking curiously at Sherlock. “My wrists?” 

 

“Tan lines,” Sherlock pointed to them, leaning forward. “Not from a watch, but from wearing long-sleeved shirts - army gear - day in and day out, for months. Afghanistan, I presume, based on the period of service.” 

 

“Incredible.” John, who had been sitting back in his chair, had leaned forward during Sherlock’s short explanation, was now staring raptly at his wrists. “That’s amazing.” 

 

Sherlock suddenly looked slightly ashamed, staring at the table instead of looking at John. “Yes, well,” he muttered. “It’s not like it wasn’t obvious.” 

 

“Not to most people, it isn’t,” John replied, hiding a smile as he took another bite of his Chinese. “Do you want to go see a film after this?” he offered. 

 

Looking up, Sherlock shrugged. “We could, I suppose,” he said tentatively, pushing his plate away and laying both hands on his overlarge belly. “I haven’t seen a film in a very long time. What’s out right now?” 

 

John pulled out his mobile. “I’ve honestly no idea, I was just making a suggestion. I can look it up, if you’re actually interested?” 

 

“I’m truly not,” Sherlock replied, and John laughed. “I was only trying to politely accept your offer.” 

 

“I figured,” John giggled. “Want to go back to mine? I don’t really care what we do, so long as it means you don’t go home just yet.” 

 

“Let’s go back to yours, then. I don’t want to go home, either.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock invited John back to the strip club for another performance later that week. “I’m down to two shows a week,” he explained, unpacking his duffel in the dressing room as John watched. “I just can’t handle much more than that. Bruising is part of the job, but with an extra thirty pounds, it just makes things hard.” 

 

“I can imagine,” John replied, leaning back against a support beam and watching as Sherlock laid out his clothes. “So you...freelance, then? I’m not familiar with stripper employment,” he said, grinning. 

 

“Freelance is...accurate,” Sherlock reasoned, sinking down into a chair and breathing heavily, rubbing his belly. “Clubs pay dancers for expertise and appearance, especially those of my...condition. It’s a matter of playing the game and seeing which club is willing to fork out the most money. For me, at least.” 

 

“Huh,” John said. He pushed himself away from the beam and moved Sherlock’s duffel from the chair opposite, pulling the Omega’s legs into his lap and rubbing his swollen feet. “So how long do you think you’ll manage to keep this up?” he inquired, working at Sherlock’s ankles idly. 

 

“Hopefully, until they’re born, if I’m lucky,” Sherlock replied, pushing a long finger against a bulging knee or elbow and wincing as it receded. “I’ll be down to one show a week, by then, but it’ll be the main attraction. Packed house, larger cut of the door and tips. The bigger I am, the better the pay. They’ll start marketing me as ‘overdue’ in about eight weeks, just because it’ll pull hordes of horny Alphas through the door.” He shook his head wryly. 

 

“It’d get me through the door,” John agreed. 

 

Sherlock laughed then, his belly jumping as he rubbed it. “Well, luckily for you, you don’t have to go to a strip club to see it,” he replied. “You can see it anytime you’d like.” 

 

John hummed and kept rubbing Sherlock’s feet. “So are we an item, then?” he asked, kneading at Sherlock’s arches. “We haven’t really talked about it...” 

 

“Well, I certainly thought that was obvious enough,” Sherlock replied, brow furrowing. “Is there any reason you thought we weren’t together?” 

 

John shrugged, eyebrows raising. “Dunno,” he answered. “I just didn’t know if you were...looking for that sort of thing. A relationship, I mean.” 

 

“I wasn’t looking,” Sherlock told him. “But I found one, didn’t I?” 

 

“Suppose you did,” John replied, massaging Sherlock’s ankle. He heard a noise behind them and turned around, suddenly face-to-thigh with someone he didn’t know. 

 

“Sherlock,” the man boomed, a slightly sickening grin spreading across his face. “Good to see you back. We’ve got a pretty full house out there, waiting on you to perform,” he continued, ignoring John completely and ogling Sherlock’s moving belly. “Gonna give ‘em a good show tonight, eh?” 

 

“As good as I can manage,” Sherlock replied drily, pulling his feet from John’s lap and removing his hands from his belly. “If you’ll fuck off, Anderson, I need to get dressed. And before you offer, I’ve got an assistant to help me, I don’t need you copping a feel when I’m trying to get into costume.” 

 

The man - Anderson, apparently - bit back a scowl as he looked down at John and then shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Suit yourself,” he said, heading toward the door. “Ten percent of the door tonight, and tips as usual.” 

 

“Twenty,” Sherlock replied, frowning. “I’ve walked out for less.” 

 

“Twenty,” Anderson said with a sigh. “Right robber, you are. Better dance your arse off,” he muttered, flinging the curtain closed behind himself as he strode out. 

 

“He’ll give me fifteen and hope I don’t notice,” Sherlock sighed, holding out his arms for John to pull him to his feet. “But I’ve already paid off the doorman to skim me an extra five percent tonight. ‘Right robber’, he is,” he sneered, pressing both hands to his back as John pulled him to stand. “Help me into costume? The gold one tonight,” he said, pointing, and John wordlessly grabbed the gold-coloured garments and held them up. 

 

“These won’t fit,” he said, turning them ‘round curiously. “You’re too big.” 

 

“That’s the idea,” Sherlock replied. “Now come on,” he continued, turning around. “Help me out of these and into those.” 

 

John was permitted to watch from the wings, and he was glad that he didn’t have to watch from the audience. Seeing so many other Alphas - men and women alike - ogling and lusting after Sherlock would’ve been unbearable...just watching the stage manager nearly drool was almost too much. 

 

He had to admit, though, that Sherlock was damned impressive on stage. The man had full control of his body, and knew exactly how to pose, how to sway, how to touch himself to have every man in the audience palming their lap desperately. The only thing that kept John from doing the same was the knowledge that afterward, when he took the man home, he’d be allowed to touch, not just watch from afar. 

 

Sherlock’s number ended and he pulled himself to his feet, his hands going to his back and reminding John of the way he’d walked off stage, the first time John had seen him perform. He was even bigger now, John realised with a sudden throb to his prick, and he knew his face was flushed by the way Sherlock grinned at him. 

 

“Alright?” John asked, stepping toward his partner and putting a supportive hand on the stripper’s sweaty, strained back. “You certainly know how to work a crowd.” 

 

Sherlock’s hands opened and he dropped handfuls of notes and coins on the makeup table in front of himself. “Well, you know. It comes with lots of practise,” he replied. “Help me change.” John assisted the Omega in undressing and re-dressing in street clothes, and as soon as they were finished, Sherlock collapsed in the chair, his belly heaving with each breath. “There were more tips, but I couldn’t bend to get them off the floor. Heathens,” he growled. “I think one of the girls is picking them up for me. Ah,” he said, his face lighting up in a smile as a young, brown-haired girl walked toward the pair. “Molly. You’re too kind,” he said, taking the bucket the girl handed him. 

 

“Least I can do, Sherlock,” the girl giggled, brushing her hair back and tucking it behind her ear. “Who’s this? Dunno that I’ve seen you before,” she said, turning to look at John with a small smile. 

 

“John,” the Alpha introduced himself, standing up to shake the girl’s hand. “Sherlock’s...” 

 

“Partner,” Sherlock finished for him, giving the doctor a grin. “We’re together. I met John after my last show, and he took a...deeper interest,” he said, and John saw some sort of mutual understanding pass between the two strippers. 

 

“Lucky,” Molly breathed, looking at John a little longingly. “That’s so hard to find. Good for you, Sherlock,” she congratulated him, sitting delicately on a stool and crossing her legs. “How are you doing? With the babies, I mean. Everything alright?” 

 

John watched the two of them converse, and he smiled as he saw the camaraderie they obviously shared. Molly spoke to Sherlock as an equal, and Sherlock - as he did with most people he respected, John had learned - treated her almost likewise. He fished out a twenty-pound note from the bucket as they talked and gave it to Molly, who accepted it with a smile as she tucked it into her g-string. 

 

As Sherlock and Molly caught up, John pulled the bucket from Sherlock’s hands and swept the bills and coins he’d managed to collect in on top of the crumpled paper. He began to sort, making neat piles of one-pound and two-pound coins, as well as stacks of fivers, tenners, and a few twenties and fifties. “Not a bad haul,” he heard Sherlock say, and he looked up to see that Molly had departed, leaving them as the only two people in the dressing room. “That’s, what? Mmm, close to two hundred pounds? That might be approaching a record,” Sherlock remarked, leaning forward and grabbing the stack of ten-pound notes. 

 

“Plus twenty percent of the door?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded. “Jesus. You make a killing doing this, don’t you?” he said incredulously. 

 

“It certainly pays well,” Sherlock agreed, rubbing his belly slowly. “Between stripping and the surrogacy, I can live comfortably.” 

 

They were interrupted again by the return of Anderson, who handed Sherlock a massive stack of bills. “Here’s your twenty percent,” he said, and Sherlock took the roll of banknotes with narrowed eyes. “How much did you skim off the top?” he asked, and John started surreptitiously stacking the notes Sherlock had earned as tips. 

 

“None,” Anderson answered too quickly, but Sherlock just cocked an eyebrow and handed John the stack. 

 

“Right, then. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be heading out, and I’ll see you next Tuesday,” Sherlock said, lurching forward and pushing himself up with effort. 

 

“Yeah, sure, don’t put your back out in between now and then,” Anderson sneered as he slunk out of the room. 

 

John was about to make some sort of cutting remark, but Sherlock spoke before he had the chance. “I’ll go collect the five percent he skimmed from Toby at the door, and we can be on our way,” he said, taking John’s hand and leading the way out. 

 

John, entirely focused on the feeling of Sherlock’s palm in his, forgot his irritation and held Sherlock’s hand the whole way home. 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Sherlock hit 30 weeks, he and John had settled into a comfortable domesticity. John had taken over a little bit of space in Sherlock’s (massive) closet, and had a toothbrush in the cup next to Sherlock’s (which John thought was the ultimate mark of partnership). 

 

Sherlock had a small suitcase of clothes that he kept at John’s flat (and had a toothbrush there as well), but as of late they spent far more time at Sherlock’s than at John’s. All the Omega’s pregnancy supplies and aids were there - his yoga ball, his comfortable clothes, bottles and jars of creams and lotions to keep his ever-expanding belly stretch-mark free. It just made more sense to spend time at Sherlock’s, overall. 

 

John’s breath still caught, though, when Sherlock handed him a brand-new, shiny key to the flat. “Sherlock...” 

 

“It’s not an engagement ring, John,” Sherlock said drily, waddling back to the sofa and sinking down with a low sigh. “It’s mainly so I don’t have to traverse the stairs to let you in every time you come over.” 

 

John huffed a laugh and pocketed the key, sliding over the back of the sofa and pulling Sherlock’s feet into his lap for a much-deserved rub. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s doctor finally insisted on bed rest when he hit 32 weeks. 

 

“I just don’t think it’s safe for you to be up and...performing...at this stage of your pregnancy,” she told him, closing his chart and looking at the Omega intently. John, sitting in a chair beside the exam table, looked between them. 

 

“There’s no sign of gestational diabetes?” Sherlock asked. 

 

“No,” the doctor replied, and oh, John knew where this was going. 

 

“No signs of preeclampsia?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Any signs of anything wrong with either me or any of the fetuses?” 

 

“No, not that I can see.” 

 

“So why are you insisting on bed rest when I, and they, are perfectly healthy with no signs of approaching or impending complications?” 

 

The doctor sighed and crossed her legs. “It’s preventative,” she explained. “By putting you on bed rest, it keeps any of those things from happening.” 

 

“But -“ John cut in. “Putting him on bed rest won’t keep gestational diabetes from happening. That’s up to what he eats and how quickly the fetuses are growing,” he challenged, and the doctor sighed again.

 

“That’s true,” she admitted. “But preeclampsia -“ 

 

“Would happen if I were overworking myself and not properly caring for my body. This is my fourth pregnancy, doctor, and not my first with multiples. I know what I’m doing.” 

 

She shook her head and stood up, putting Sherlock’s chart under her arm. “Fine. Bed rest is my recommendation, but I can’t force it on you. I’ll see you next week, Mr. Holmes.” She held out her hand and Sherlock shook it perfunctorily, a satisfied smirk on his face. 

 

* * *

 

 

John officially moved in with Sherlock on day four of week 33. He’d been starting to feel nervous when he was away, and Sherlock had finally just insisted that instead of John texting him at all hours of the day, it would be easiest for him to just live there, for god’s sake. 

 

He thought, however, that he might’ve made a mistake when John brought groceries along with his clothes and toiletries. The Alpha staggered up the stairs with as much as he could carry in one load - a suitcase and duffel, and an armful of plastic grocery bags. “More downstairs, hang on a tick,” he panted, dumping his things on the floor and heading back down the stairs. The second trip took longer, with John loaded down with what seemed like almost enough groceries to last the rest of Sherlock’s gestation. 

 

“I said you could move in, not bring the nearest Tesco with you,” Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow as John started hauling the bags into the kitchen. 

 

“Yeah, but I know you don’t eat enough, and if I’m gonna be living with you I want you to be eating right,” John replied, opening the cupboards and taking stock of what little food Sherlock had. “You do just order everything in, don’t you?” he asked incredulously, grabbing a half-empty box of chocolate digestives dated from the previous spring. 

 

“It’s not as if I can’t afford to,” Sherlock replied, and John frowned. 

 

“Chinese food twice a week is not healthy for growing pups, Sherlock,” he scolded, and pulled a few other out-of-date boxes from the cupboards before starting to restock. 

 

Sherlock laid his hands on his ever-growing belly and sighed, staring down at the mound. “I think they’re plenty big enough as is,” he grumbled, and a pup kicked as if in agreement. 

 

“Bigger babies means healthier start to life,” John replied cheerily, stacking cans of soup and veggies in the cupboards before starting in on breakfast foods. 

 

“Bigger babies means bigger Sherlock,” Sherlock muttered, but didn’t protest when John brought him out a small plate of fresh cheese and a few crackers. Munching on the snack, he watched as his lover-cum-flatmate moved in - his groceries first, and then his clothes and belongings. And if that didn’t sum up John in a nutshell, he doubted anything would. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sex happened a lot more frequently with John in the flat. Instead of going through the tedious ‘booty-call’ of their early relationship, John was almost always on-hand to service the gravid Omega, who, as his gestation progressed, seemed more and more randy. 

 

John was working a combination of oil and lotion - a concoction Sherlock had mixed that he hoped would keep his skin free of stretch marks. The poor Omega’s belly was nearing overfull, almost big enough to boggle the mind, and though John staunchly told his mate that he was still stretch-mark free, there were a few deep purple marks growing bigger by the day on the lowest part of his belly, where Sherlock could neither see nor feel. John spent a little extra time working the cream-oil mix over those spots, hoping to nourish the skin enough to keep it from marking any further. 

 

Sherlock loved getting belly rubs. He was very much like a cat in that manner - aloof and snappy when he didn’t want attention, but begging for it and nearly purring with satisfaction when he did. He also loved belly rubs because they typically ended with his prick in John’s hand or, sometimes, his mouth. 

 

This time was no exception. 

 

John took his god damn time working Sherlock into a frenzy. There was nothing he loved more than a panting, heaving Sherlock, belly rolling with three growing pups, trying furiously to bring himself off before John was good and ready. 

 

The Omega whined helplessly, trying and failing to push his hips up, the weight in his middle and pelvis keeping him pinned to the sofa as John worked him slowly, slowly, slowly, the hand on Sherlock’s prick keeping a steady, loose stroke while his other hand rubbed over stretched, thin skin, rippling occasionally with movement. When Sherlock finally came, he shook all over, his voice hoarse as he cried out John’s name and released. 

 

John carefully rolled Sherlock onto his side, into the ‘recovery’ position, supporting his belly with one arm and rubbing it gently. It hung off the sofa ever so slightly, which made John’s own cock jump in his pants, but he ignored his arousal in favour of seeing Sherlock through the thinning fog of residual pleasure. 

 

Sherlock eventually grumbled that he was uncomfortable on the sofa, and John hauled him carefully to his feet, aware of the strain that his back underwent every time he stood or walked. He led the way to the bedroom and eased an aching Sherlock onto the mattress, his strong hands soothing the sore, too-stretched muscles in his back and shoulders. “Poor thing,” he murmured, searching for a heating pad to further ease Sherlock’s aches and pains. “You’ve just got a few weeks left, love, then it’ll be all over.” 

 

“I’ve got a show tomorrow night,” Sherlock reminded him, and John made a strange noise. “No, I can do it. It’ll only be one number. I can last that long.” 

 

“You look ready to split in two,” John said sympathetically, worriedly, rubbing Sherlock’s side gently. 

 

“And I feel it,” Sherlock replied, sighing. “But the tips will be incredible, and so will the door. Then I’ll have another week off. Plenty of time to recover,” he grunted, shifting his bulk on the bed in an attempt to get more comfortable. 

 

“You’re a trouper,” John told his partner, his hand settling on Sherlock’s shoulder lightly. Sherlock merely grunted again in reply, and fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

John wanted to sit in the audience for another performance of Sherlock’s, but worry for his partner kept him backstage in the wings, wringing his hands. He could see the discomfort in Sherlock’s moves, his dips and twists less graceful and more clumsy than usual, but the Alphas in the audience were roaring for it. 

 

Sherlock had gotten a new outfit made, one that fit properly this time instead of the gold number that barely kept anything a secret. Even so, every curve was shown off, from the (honestly) melon-sized breasts, settled heavily on the dramatic, heavy curve of Sherlock’s triplet-full belly. 

 

The Omega couldn’t help but hold his belly during the performance; instead of his arms doing their usual, graceful twists and elegant turns, they held his overfull middle as though he was going to split open without the support. John was fairly certain he saw at least half a dozen Alphas climax as Sherlock swayed back and forth at the end of his number, cradling his too-large belly in both arms. John would have done, too, if he hadn’t caught the look of sheer pain in Sherlock’s eyes. 

 

John was waiting with a robe and a warmed heating pad when Sherlock staggered offstage, looking weary and beyond pained. “Sit down,” John ushered needlessly, and the Omega shuddered as he nearly collapsed into a seat. “You okay, love? You don’t look...” he trailed off, his brow creasing with worry as Sherlock moaned. 

 

The Omega’s eyes were squeezed shut and he made a noise of pain low in his throat, the sound continuing for several long seconds, and John’s worry grew. “I may have overestimated my stamina,” Sherlock rasped after a pause, and John clucked sympathetically, sinking down onto his knees beside Sherlock and taking his partner’s hand. 

 

“You okay, though? Does it hurt worse than...than it ought to?” he asked. “It’s not, you didn’t trigger labour, did you? It’s just, you look...” 

 

“I feel like I’m dying,” Sherlock replied, and for once John didn’t begrudge him the drama. “It’s not labour, but I feel like I could come apart. I’m ready for them to come out,” he said lowly, his eyes drifting closed again. 

 

“I know you are, love.” John sighed and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Maybe you shouldn’t do next week’s show. I think it might be time to quit, until the pups come,” he suggested. 

 

Sherlock was in the middle of shaking his head ‘no’ when a greasy voice interrupted his thoughts. “That’d be a breach of contract,” Anderson sneered, and John bristled at the prick’s tone. 

 

“Yeah, and?” he asked, and Sherlock shook his head ‘no’ again, strangely silent. “I’m his doctor, and I don’t think he’ll be able to even walk at this time next week, let alone dance across a stage,” John added. 

 

“Can do it,” Sherlock rasped, and John could hear the hollowness of pain in his voice. “It’s okay, John. I can manage. It’s just one more week, then I can stop.” 

 

“Just one more week, freak, then you and your litter can have a break,” Anderson repeated unnecessarily. John rankled even more, and nearly tore the check the sleazy club owner held out in his haste to accept it. 

 

“If he ends up hurt because of a performance, it’s your head on the line,” he growled, and Anderson’s eyes widened in fake terror before he walked away, cackling. John was about to speak to Sherlock when he heard footsteps again and whirled around, ready to take Anderson’s head off himself, but he stopped short when he saw it was Molly. “Hey, Mols,” he said, his voice softening as the girl entered the room. “Sherlock’s not feeling so great at the moment.” 

 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock protested, but his voice was too weak for either of them to believe it. 

 

“You worked your rear off out there, Sherlock, I have no idea how you manage it,” Molly said, kindly, handing John the bucket of tips she’d collected. John’s eyes boggled at the number of coins and bills it contained, but he set it aside, pulling up a chair for Molly and then for himself. 

 

“Pays the bills,” he croaked, attempting a smile as his eyes cracked open. He caught John’s eye and his smile brightened just a little, and John found himself responding in kind. 

 

“Feeling better?” he murmured, and Sherlock squeezed his hand. 

 

“I think the worst has passed,” he replied, shifting and pulling his robe tighter around himself. The movement only served to emphasize his belly, and John rubbed it gently, pausing as he felt the skin taut under his hand. 

 

“You sure?” he asked, cocking his head. 

 

“Braxton-hicks,” Sherlock responded with a sigh, and then turned to explain to Molly. “Practise contractions. Just my body getting ready for the birth. I probably triggered them a little early with tonight’s performance,” he said wryly, rubbing his hard belly. 

 

“Let’s get you home, then,” John replied at once, worry thrumming in his veins. “Best to get you somewhere that you can relax.” Sherlock nodded his quiescence, and John sighed. A complacent Sherlock meant a sick Sherlock. 

 

“Molly, do you know,” John asked, turning to look at the girl, “Does this club have a wheelchair? I don’t want him walking any more than he has to,” he explained, and for once, Sherlock didn’t argue the issue. Molly nodded and quietly left the room, which went eerily quiet in her absence. 

 

“Don’t do that to me again,” John whispered after a long silence. “I thought you were in labour. I was terrified for you,” he said, and Sherlock managed a small laugh. 

 

“I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting that to happen,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “Or for them to be that intense. They’ve never come on so strong, or so quickly, before.” 

 

John pulled the Omega into a tight hug, and Sherlock melted into the embrace. “You gotta take it easy, if only for the sake of my poor heart,” John murmured, and Sherlock nodded. 

 

“For your heart, I will,” he replied, and John managed a smile. 

 

* * *

 

 

Once the practise contractions began, they didn’t stop, and when Sherlock officially hit full-term - 36 weeks - John decided it was time to talk about the birth plan. 

 

“Here at home,” was all Sherlock had volunteered, and John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. 

 

“You think you can manage an unassisted home birth with _triplets_?” John asked incredulously, peering out of one eye at the heavy Omega. 

 

“Yes,” he said sharply, and then frowned. “Probably.” 

 

“Yes, _probably?_ ” John repeated, narrowing his eyes. “What do you mean, probably?” 

 

“Well, I mean that I can most likely manage it, but I’m not sure,” Sherlock snapped in reply. “Honestly, John.” 

 

John sighed. “And what happens if you _can’t_ manage it?” he asked. 

 

“Then you’ll have to help,” Sherlock replied. 

 

“That’s not very practical, you know.” John shook his head. “I am a doctor, but I’m a GP, not an OB-GYN.” 

 

“I don’t predict needing help,” Sherlock sighed, irritated. “But in planning for eventualities, I’m certain I can trust you to take care of me should I, or the babies, need it.” 

 

“I’m not certain you can trust me,” John replied, scrubbing his face in his hands again. “I’m too involved. I mean, I’m - your partner, yeah? My emotions could cloud my judgement. I don’t want you to entrust me with something like this, I’m afraid I’d muck it up somehow.” 

 

Sherlock’s expression softened and he reached out to take John’s hand, squeezing it gently and running his thumb over the Alpha’s knuckles. His other arm was draped across the top of his belly, heavy and full with the litter so close to being born. “You won’t muck it up,” he murmured. “I know you wouldn’t. You’re too good for that.” 

 

John looked up at his Omega with a tired smile. “Nah, I’m not,” he replied, but both men knew the argument had been settled. John got up to brew two cups of tea, and the couple settled in for the evening. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s final performance was booked for the following Tuesday. He was 37 weeks and four days pregnant, and though he tried to bristle when Molly met them at the curb with a wheelchair, he didn’t protest as he was hauled into it and wheeled inside. 

 

Sherlock’s act was the last of the night, and they rolled the curtains closed before setting his stage. This week’s performance was going to be something a little different, but John thought that if the Alphas in the audience were anything like he was, it would be met with ample satisfaction. 

 

Sherlock had asked him to take part in the performance, and though he was nervous at first, he gradually calmed as Sherlock explained his plan. When the curtains came back open, John was sat in a cushy chair, reading a newspaper with a lit lamp on a stand next to him. The couch, positioned at a right angle to his chair, was empty, but littered with blankets and cushions. John looked up as the music started - something soft and in the background - and a smile lit his face as his Omega appeared. 

 

Dressed in his usual pyjamas, t-shirt, and robe, the heavily pregnant Omega waddled out into the ‘sitting room’, one hand rubbing his belly while the other pressed against his aching, curved back. John set his newspaper aside and rose from his chair to meet his partner, carefully untying the ribbons of his robe and pushing the blue silk back and off his shoulders. Sherlock peeled his shirt up, exposing his belly, and the Alpha knelt down, at eye level with the pup-filled globe. 

 

The audience was rather quiet, but the silence was an easy one. The scene of domesticity was somehow even more erotic than any dance Sherlock could have tried, and when John - a stand-in for every Alpha in the audience - started to run his hands all over Sherlock’s belly, the audience began to see themselves in his shoes. 

 

Sherlock, knowing he had to play the part somehow, let his head fall back as John caressed and kissed his belly, holding the heavy globe in both arms as his Alpha claimed him, claimed the pups he was growing. 

 

John sat Sherlock down on the sofa, the Omega grunting loudly as he sank back into a sprawl. A bottle of lotion, procured from somewhere in the couch, was uncapped as John made his way behind the couch, giving the audience a full, uninhibited view of Sherlock’s fecundity, on display as he spread his legs wide. John leant over the back of the couch and dripped lotion on the massive mound of Sherlock’s belly, slowly starting to work the cream into the stretched, thin skin. 

 

John smiled at Sherlock as he heard the muted moans from the Alphas in the audience, knowing that every man and woman in the establishment wished they could be in his place right now. He gave Sherlock a short, unscripted kiss as he spread more lotion around the gravid curve, pushing his fingers just below the tight waistband of Sherlock’s trousers to reach every inch of skin he could manage. 

 

When he was done, Sherlock’s belly a heavy, glistening globe, the Alpha pulled the Omega to stand, slotting himself behind the man’s strained body and laying his hands on the sides of his partner’s belly. Sherlock’s hands covered his, roaming around in the iconic motion of an expectant Omega, and they rocked back and forth in time to the music, rotating slowly from side to side as the violins sang. 

 

When the lights dimmed and the last chord sounded, there was a beat of silence before the audience whooped and cheered for their performance. John grinned at his partner and gave him another kiss as the curtains swung closed, Molly dashing out on stage to collect the tips Sherlock and John had earned. 

 

Half-expecting Anderson to short Sherlock’s payment because he hadn’t actually danced, John was bristling and ready for an argument when the manager walked into Sherlock’s dressing room. Instead of sneering some slight against him as per usual, however, the man gave Sherlock a sort of half-smile as he handed him the cheque. “Twenty-five of the door tonight,” he said. “You earned it.” His eyes lingered just a little too long on Sherlock’s swollen belly before he turned to leave, but John couldn’t find it in himself to argue as his eyes boggled at the amount written on the cheque. 

 

Molly delivered two buckets of tips a few minutes later, giggling and cooing as Sherlock let her touch his belly. The younger woman wished Sherlock the best before she left, and Sherlock gave her a weak smile, slipping her a few large bills as thanks for her help. When they were finally alone, John settled onto the sofa beside his partner, letting the Omega rest heavily against him. “You okay?” he asked after a few moments of silence, and Sherlock nodded. 

 

“It’ll be soon,” he said, and John knew instantly what he was talking about. “I could feel them shifting, when we were out on stage. A few more days, probably, a week at most. They’re close.” 

 

“You’re so strong,” John replied, nuzzling at the Omega’s neck and kissing his shoulder gently. “It’ll all be over soon. You can do it.” 

 

“I know I can,” Sherlock replied, taking John’s hand. “I have you.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock made it to 38 weeks and 3 days. 

 

He had felt the first baby drop the night before, a sudden ache in the bowl of his pelvis that made him shiver and lean against the nearest piece of furniture until the sensation dulled. John looked up from where he was sat on the couch, his brow furrowing as Sherlock rubbed the side of his belly intently. “Okay?” he asked, and Sherlock shook his head silently. 

 

“Close,” he murmured, pushing away from the chair and nearly staggering to the sofa. John helped him down, and a low noise of pain slid from his lips before he gathered his wits again. “One of them just dropped. The rest are - oooh,” he breathed, reaching out to stroke the curve of his middle. “Moving down, too. Feel,” he commanded, taking John’s hand and dragging it down to where he could feel the babies shifting, turning minutely into position for birth. 

 

“No contractions?” John asked, and Sherlock shook his head again. “Okay, good. Take it easy for a bit. Want a tea?” he inquired, and the Omega’s eyes slid shut, a silent request for John to stop talking. He did, and Sherlock simply clutched at his hand, trying to keep his pulse even as he felt a familiar sort of nausea thrill through his body. 

 

Sherlock was particularly achy for the rest of the night, his belly so low and full that the change was obvious. The strain on his lower back was incredible, but he never said a word about the pain to John. The Alpha knew it was there, of course, and when Sherlock struggled to rise, John kept a warm, solid palm on his spine as they made their slow, agonizing way to the bedroom. 

 

The contractions started just after ten the next morning. Sherlock was still laying in bed, trying to sleep, when his muscles tightened and held, different than the Braxton-Hicks he’d been feeling for weeks. He forced himself to breathe, knowing that holding his breath would only make him lightheaded and weak. “John,” he called softly after the tension had passed, and heard the Alpha rise from his chair in the sitting room and make his way back to the bedroom. 

 

“Alright?” John asked, pausing in the doorway and peering at Sherlock. “Need something?” 

 

“It’s time,” Sherlock replied, twisting to look at John and hold out one hand. “They’re coming.” 

 

A soft ‘oh’ escaped John’s mouth, and he gave his Omega a small, nervous smile as he padded to the bedside. “Okay,” he murmured. “Okay, good. It’s about time they decided to be done.” Sherlock gave a weak laugh that John returned. “Right, then. What can I do?” 

 

“Call the parents,” Sherlock replied. “Tell them it’ll be today or tomorrow, and give them the address. Mrs. Hudson will keep them occupied until all three are here.” John nodded and reached for Sherlock’s mobile, charging on the bedside table. He quickly found the number for the biological parents and rang them up, sitting on the edge of the bed and petting Sherlock’s thigh as he spoke with them. He was smiling broadly when he hung up, and Sherlock gave him a questioning look. 

 

“They’re over the moon,” John informed the Omega. “Beside themselves. What you’re doing is amazing, Sherlock,” he said softly, reaching up to take his partner’s hand. “You’re giving them a family. That’s incredible.” 

 

“It pays well,” Sherlock replied, but the expression of happiness on his face told John all he needed to know. Sherlock loved this job, and John loved him even more because of it. 

 

Barely forty minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door of 221B, and when John went to open it, there was Mrs. Hudson and a couple whom he assumed were the expectant parents. “Just here to check up on Sherlock, dear,” his landlady explained. “Sherlock said one visit was okay, toward the beginning. Is he up for it?” she asked. 

 

John’s brow furrowed. “Dunno,” he answered honestly. “Let me go ask him. Hang on a tick.” He beckoned them in and gestured for them to sit on the sofa, quickly retreating to the bedroom, where he found Sherlock in the midst of another contraction. “Twelve minutes,” John said quietly, checking his mobile and marking the end of the contraction on his stopwatch. “Right on schedule. The parents are here. You up for a visit?” he asked, perching on the side of the mattress. 

 

Sherlock exhaled a long breath as the contraction ended and then nodded at John. “Help me up?” he asked, pushing aside the sheets and holding up his arms. “I’ll join them in the sitting room for a bit. I can manage,” he added before John could protest, grumbling a little as the Alpha pulled him up reluctantly. 

 

John followed Sherlock out into the sitting room, frowning in sympathy as the gravid Omega waddled down the hall, holding his back with both hands. He helped Sherlock down into John’s cushy chair, and John pulled up a footrest and helped Sherlock put his feet up before sitting down on the edge of the furniture. Sherlock was the picture of fertility, this way, the smallest sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead as he cradled his massive belly. 

 

“God, you’re huge,” one of the parents gasped, and though John frowned, Sherlock just chuckled. 

 

“Bet you’re glad you didn’t have to go through this now,” he replied, and John relaxed as everyone tittered. “Hard to predict how long it will take,” Sherlock continued, rubbing the side of his middle absentmindedly. “The contractions are twelve minutes apart. It could be just an hour or two until I’m ready to push, or it could be six. It all depends on them,” he sighed, patting his belly. 

 

The couple and Sherlock made idle banter for a few minutes, and John was surprised how amicable Sherlock could be. He supposed, after all, that since this was Sherlock’s job, he should have some sense of professionalism about it. Conversation stopped abruptly and John looked up, his heart thumping as he saw Sherlock’s face twisted up in pain. “Contraction,” he said unnecessarily, digging for his mobile and kneading Sherlock’s calf as the spasm continued. He pressed a button as this one ended, noting that the duration between the contractions had gone down by about thirty seconds. “Good, good,” he murmured as Sherlock released his breath, and the mood in the room eased as Sherlock’s breathing gradually evened out. 

 

“Sorry about that,” Sherlock sighed, his head falling back against the back of the chair as everyone else in the room hushed him and murmured platitudes. John caught the barest of smiles on Sherlock’s lips at the praise, and knocked him gently on the ankle, whispering ‘git.’ Sherlock poked him with his toes and grinned openly, and John shook his head. 

 

“Tea, anyone?” 

 

* * *

 

 

The expectant parents stayed in the sitting room for just about half an hour before Sherlock caught John’s eye and gave him a look that said, plainly, ‘Things are about to get worse, please make them leave.’ John hastened to comply, and ushered the couple and Mrs. Hudson out of the flat. 

 

He closed the door just in time for Sherlock to become vocal, whining loudly through a much longer contraction. He cursed as it ended, drawing his legs up as much as he could in an attempt to curl up into a ball. “My waters are going to go soon,” Sherlock panted, clutching John’s hand. 

 

“Let’s get you out of _my_ chair, then, shall we?” John asked, and Sherlock gave him a dry laugh as they pulled him up to stand. “Come on, you’re getting in the bath. I think you could use the relief.” 

 

Sherlock groaned loudly as John lowered him into the steaming bath, his head falling back against the rolled-up towel his partner had placed along the edge. “Much better,” he sighed, slouching and sinking a little deeper into the warm water. “You’re good. It’s good to have help.” 

 

“Did you always give birth alone, before?” John asked, his forehead wrinkling. Sherlock nodded and John frowned. “Not very safe, you know,” he said, and Sherlock huffed a laugh. 

 

“I managed, didn’t I?” he asked, and John shook his head in reluctant agreement. “But it is good to have you here. It’s easier this way.” 

 

John slid to the floor next to the bathtub, reaching up to take Sherlock’s hand in his own and squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m glad to be here for you,” he murmured. “Just let me know if you need me to do anything, alright?” he asked, peering over the lip of the tub to look at Sherlock. 

 

The Omega nodded and let out a sigh, toeing the tap and letting hot water run into the tub for another minute or so until the water reached a better temperature. He fumbled with the tap until he managed to twist it to turn off, and then closed his eyes, leaning back against the rolled towel. “Fine for now,” he said quietly. “Going to try and rest.” 

 

“Definitely a good idea,” John replied. He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers again and then let go of his hand, letting his head rest against the side of the porcelain tub as Sherlock’s hand drifted to his tight belly, rubbing it soothingly and sending little ripples of water outward. 

 

Some minutes later, the steady in-and-out of Sherlock’s breathing became irregular, and John was immediately on his knees, hands gripping the sides of the tub as he looked anxiously to Sherlock. The Omega’s face was screwed up in pain, and his breath was coming in pants, steady but laboured, which John thought was probably an accurate term to use. 

 

At the peak of the pain, Sherlock’s eyes shot open and he let out a soft ‘oh’, and John barely had time to ask what was wrong before he noticed a slightly yellow discolouration to the water. He doubted Sherlock had had an ‘accident’, so this must have been his waters. Sherlock pressed a hand to his belly and grunted the affirmative, breathing heavily through the remainder of the contraction. 

 

The water continued to grow yellower and yellower, even after the contraction subsided, but Sherlock didn’t seem concerned. When he’d caught his breath, he answered John’s unasked query. “Enough amniotic fluid for three babies, John,” he said roughly, and the panic John had barely felt thrumming in his veins started to quiet. 

 

After several more contractions, the water had grown cold, and John pulled the plug on the drain and watched as the yellow-tinged water spiralled down the drain. Sherlock - “Poor thing,” John had murmured, stroking his forehead - sat shivering in the tub, droplets of water coursing down his distended sides as the tub drained. 

 

“Do you want me to refill it?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded his head ‘yes’, so John replaced the plug and turned the taps, adding a few droplets of calming essential oils as the water churned. When it reached the apex of Sherlock’s belly, John turned the taps again, stripping his shirt off and reaching down into the water to take Sherlock’s hand. “I’m here, I’m here,” he murmured as Sherlock shook with another contraction, and the Omega’s breathing steadied, squeezing his Alpha’s hand tight. 

 

When the time between Sherlock’s contractions had shortened to just under five minutes, John drained the tub again and helped heave Sherlock’s trembling form up and out, drying him off carefully before leading the Omega to his bedroom. 

 

The smell of _them_ had an instant, comforting effect on Sherlock’s body, and he sagged heavily against John as they both sank down onto the mattress. Sherlock quivered with another contraction and gripped John’s hand tight, allowing himself to make small noises of pain as his belly tightened, pushing the babies toward their exit. He gasped in a breath when the contraction ended, and John rubbed his back soothingly, petting the pained Omega as he recovered. “How are you feeling?” John asked quietly. 

 

“They’re getting close,” Sherlock replied, running his hand over the outermost curve of his belly. “I can feel a head, grinding down on my - mmh, my cervix,” he groaned, his hand curling into a fist as, inside his tight womb, the babies squirmed, fighting for their positions. “It won’t be long before I’m ready to push.” 

 

“Nearly ready to push,” John repeated, nodding. “Okay. Alright, good, then. Can I do anything to help?” He asked, still petting Sherlock softly, running his hand up and down Sherlock’s naked back. 

 

“Help me lie down,” Sherlock replied, uncurling his fingers and taking a deep breath as he laid his hand on his belly. “Pillows between my legs. My hips are _killing_ me,” he sighed. He winced and made a few pained noises as John helped him shift into position, lying on his side with pillows stuffed anywhere John could manage to put them. 

 

When the Omega was supported, John climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the mattress, and reached for Sherlock’s hand. “You’re doing really well,” he murmured, stroking his thumb across Sherlock’s white knuckles. “Really, really well. Just hang in there, you’ll be done with this soon.” Sherlock’s eyes slid closed and he nodded, squeezing John’s hand briefly in mutual reassurance. 

 

Sherlock didn’t announce when he was ready to push, he just started doing so - which is why John was surprised when he came back in from a brief trip to the kitchen to see Sherlock laying on his back, legs drawn up, groaning loudly as he pushed with a contraction. John nearly dropped the cup of tea he’d been carrying in his haste to get to Sherlock’s side, and he managed to slosh the hot liquid across his hand as he set it down on the bedside table. He hissed in pain but quickly wiped his hand on his trousers, crouching next to Sherlock and kneading the Omega’s thigh encouragingly as he pushed. 

 

Sherlock sagged back against the disarrayed pillows when the contraction let up, and John moved to sit on the edge of the mattress, grabbing Sherlock’s hand. “Should have said something,” he admonished gently. “Shouted. Let me know you were actively _having a baby_ instead of letting me make a cup of tea,” he finished with a grin. 

 

“I’m perfectly capable of pushing on my own,” Sherlock replied, smiling a bit weakly as John giggled. 

 

“Yeah, I know you are, you berk, but I’m still supposed to be helping,” John said, and Sherlock let out a soft chuckle. 

 

“You’re here now. That’s help enough,” he said, bringing his hand up to push slightly sweaty curls away from his forehead. 

 

“You keep saying that, but you don’t actually let me help,” John sighed, grinning. “But I’m not leaving your side, now, not unless you need something. I doubt you’ll be needing a tea or a sandwich when you’re, you know, pushing out a kid,” he added. John took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it, grinning wider when the Omega returned the squeeze. 

 

The next contraction came quickly, as John had expected, and Sherlock immediately bore down, allowing himself a low groan as he pushed. He batted weakly at John’s hand, directing him down below, and John obeyed, sliding down the mattress and gently grabbing Sherlock’s foot, holding it up for leverage as he watched for signs of progress. He could see Sherlock’s hole clenching and fluttering, and suspected that he’d be seeing a head soon, from the way his skin was beginning to stretch. 

 

The next contraction and push brought the first sign of emergence, when John caught sight of a copper-coloured shock of hair spreading Sherlock wide. “I see hair,” John said excitedly, gripping Sherlock’s foot. Sherlock grunted and kept pushing, his fingers fisting in the sheet as he strained through the end of the contraction. 

 

The labouring Omega was in his own world now, listening to his body’s cues and barely taking in John’s words as he worked to deliver the first baby. He howled as it crowned, and John winced and kneaded his thigh as it shook under his hands. Murmuring soothing words, John reached down with a gloved hand to support the baby’s head as it emerged slowly. Sherlock was panting and doing his best not to strain as the head slid free, and John couldn’t even imagine the ache and the pain of the birth that Sherlock was handling so well. 

 

Sherlock went quiet as the baby’s body rotated, the shoulders aligning to his widest parts as he pushed the rest of its body out of his own. He quickly became vocal again as the shoulders stretched him wide, too wide, and John held his breath, afraid his partner would tear as his skin became so thin it was nearly translucent. He stayed in tact, however, as the widest part of the baby’s body passed through, and John let out a sigh of relief as Sherlock did the same. 

 

“Just one more push?” Sherlock rasped, and it was more a statement than it was a question, but John replied in the affirmative, one hand supporting the red-haired baby’s head while the other rested under its shoulders, waiting for the rest of its body to come free. Sherlock barely had to strain to birth the rest of the body, and he sagged back in relief as John pulled the newborn to rest on a towel. 

 

He grabbed a clean flannel and started to rub the baby’s chest and belly, wiping its mouth and nostrils free of goo and tissue as it started to squall loudly. “Hey there, baby,” John said with a wide smile, feeling inexplicably proud as he cleaned the tiny, brand-new body. “It’s a boy, Sherlock,” he reported, quickly taking mental note of the baby’s colour, response, and the frankly astonishing volume such a tiny creature could produce. “Ten fingers, ten toes, and big for a triplet. You’re incredible,” he said, looking up at Sherlock and smiling broadly. 

 

“Hardly,” Sherlock murmured in reply, laying a hand over his sore, still-large belly and watching as John worked between his legs. “Cut the cord and hand him to me. I won’t keep him for long, I don’t want him to imprint, but it would be nice to meet the little bugger.” John chuckled and efficiently clamped and cut the infant’s cord, wrapping him in a cosy blanket and handing him gently to Sherlock. 

 

The Omega smiled down at the baby boy, who was still whimpering loudly and waving tiny arms about. One fist flailed and hit Sherlock in the chest, and the Omega reached up to take the fist in his own hand, holding it gently. “I believe you’re the one who’s been pounding on my bladder for the past five months,” he murmured, his smile softening when the baby began to quiet at the sound of his voice. “So it’s nice to finally have you out. That was rather tiresome.” 

 

John was carefully and quietly stripping away the soaked and soiled towels as Sherlock held the infant, and he smiled to himself as his partner spoke quietly to the baby. “Better give him here,” he said after a few minutes. “Like you said, it’s probably best for his mum and dad to have him now. Er - or do we wait until they’re all three here?” he asked, pausing as he reached for the baby. 

 

Sherlock handed the little boy over with a sigh, his arms resting gently on his belly again. “We wait until they’re all three arrived,” he replied. “Take note of his time of birth, but we’ll give them all three to the parents at the same time. It’s more fair to his siblings. They’ll all have equal time with their parents,” he said, yawning as he finished his sentence. 

 

“He’s nearly asleep,” John murmured, bouncing the little baby gently. “He’ll just lie on the bed, then, won’t you, little man? You can have a nice nap here, wait for your brothers or sisters to arrive. It’s a big task, being born, isn’t it?” he said with a soft laugh. “I know, so very exhausting,” he murmured as the baby let out a comically big yawn. 

 

Sherlock had another small contraction as John was distracted with the baby, and he carefully pushed on one of the remaining bulges in his belly, moving it down towards the exit. He grunted a little as he felt the baby slide into place - that was one sensation he doubted he’d ever fully get used to. It wasn’t quite engaged, not yet, but it was close, he could feel the head bumping against his cervix as he shifted. 

 

John laid the baby down and looked up at Sherlock as the Omega grunted, and he could see very distinctly how Sherlock’s belly had shifted lower, the second of three babies moving down and out. “Alright?” he asked, grabbing a pillow and putting it on the edge of the bed - unnecessary, really, the baby was hardly capable of moving its arms, there was no way it could coordinate movement enough to roll off the bed, but there was no harm in being cautious. He crossed back to Sherlock’s side of the mattress, perching on the edge and taking Sherlock’s hand again. “Need anything?” 

 

Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes, rubbing his belly gently. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice rough. “Just waiting. The second two will be easier. Not as much waiting,” he continued, breathing out through his nose. 

 

“Yeah, plus you’re already open and all, so.” John nodded, and managed a few sips of his now-cold tea before Sherlock’s body was shaking with another contraction. 

 

The second baby came to crown really quickly, in John’s opinion, and he hardly wanted to think about what Sherlock was going through. He held the Omega’s hand tight until he was waved away, instructed wordlessly to take his place between Sherlock’s legs and wait for the baby to emerge. 

 

John couldn’t help but giggle as the second baby’s head emerged, completely hairless. “Poor kid,” he commiserated, cupping the bald head carefully as it slid from Sherlock’s body. “Completely bald, Sherlock. One baby with a head of hair as thick as yours, and one with none at all. Imagine the baby pictures.” 

 

Sherlock managed a short laugh as he took a break from pushing, but his face screwed up in pain and concentration as the next contraction came almost immediately. The shoulders were out with one push, and the rest of its body came quickly after, followed by a rush of fluids that rather soaked the towels John had laid out. The doctor slid the baby onto a clean towel, clamping and cutting the cord quickly before sliding more towels beneath Sherlock’s trembling legs. “I’ll clean those up in a bit, just gimme a mo,” he said, turning to tend to the screeching baby. 

 

“Boy or girl?” Sherlock asked, pushing himself up a little to look at the red, screaming thing. 

 

“Another boy,” John replied, glancing between the infant’s legs to check before he put on a nappy and swaddled the bald-headed baby. “Do you want to hold this one, too?” 

 

“Might as well,” Sherlock replied, reaching out for the newborn and cradling it carefully as John laid it in his arms. “Hi, young man. My, but you are bald,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over the smooth, bare skull of the newest baby. “You’ll be teased endlessly when your siblings are old enough to look at baby photos, I’m afraid,” he said sadly. “Unless your brother or sister is born hairless, as well. Then the tables will be turned, and you’ll get to pick on your older brother, for a change.” He gave John a wide grin as the baby squealed in response, flinging an arm out and beating Sherlock’s shoulder briefly. John smiled in reply and let Sherlock hold the baby for a little longer, until it began to drift off, and then he took the infant and laid him next to his brother. 

 

Sherlock carefully massaged his belly, feeling markedly smaller and incredibly lighter than he’d felt in months. The third baby was, thankfully, also head-down, and with a bit of gentle coaxing, its body moved easily toward his stretched canal. He was pushing within minutes, and barely had to exert any force to bring the baby to crown. He encountered a little resistance as he brought the head forth, and the familiar burning stretch of the shoulders followed, but within a quarter of an hour the third baby was safely delivered and being cleaned by a competent doctor. 

 

Sherlock sagged back, glad to be finished with the whole messy business, and he had nearly drifted off when John asked him if he’d like to hold the third and final baby, a girl. He shook himself awake and accepted the little bundle, noting how much lighter this baby was. Unsurprising; there was bound to be one smaller baby with triplets. She was quieter, but opened her eyes as Sherlock talked quietly to her, and the Omega felt a strange pang of something as she blinked those wide, bright blue eyes up at him. 

 

“My goodness,” John breathed, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder and watching the baby’s unfocused gaze slide around the room before her eyes closed again. “She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Just a little hair, red like her brother - she’ll be beautiful,” he murmured. 

 

“If she’s lucky, she’ll be smart,” Sherlock said, quietly, brushing the girl’s damp curls back from her forehead and watching as she pursed her lips. “They’ll all be smart.” It was the one thing he wished on all the children he carried, for older couples or young couples alike. He hoped that the children he bore, for the families who desperately wanted children and couldn’t have them themselves, that the children would grow up loved, and smart. 

 

John took the little girl from him gently, and after he’d laid her to sleep with her brothers, he returned to Sherlock’s side, massaging his fleshy belly, encouraging his womb to contract just a few more times, to expel the afterbirth. It came after a few short minutes, sliding wetly onto a towel, and John quickly checked to make sure it was in tact before putting it in a biohazard bag in the freezer to dispose of later. He washed Sherlock up as best he could, and helped his partner change into a post-partum nappy - a necessity, though a bulky and embarrassing one, Sherlock said - and fresh pyjamas before settling him into bed. 

 

The parents were blinking away sleepiness when John knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door, and suddenly they were wide awake and eager, all nervous energy as John led the way up the steps. Sherlock, hair freshly combed and face wiped with a cloth, looked as put-together as he could manage, though he knew he was fourth in line to be admired as the parents quickly rounded the bed to meet their babies. 

 

John joined him and rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as brand-new parents met their children for the first time, with Mrs. Hudson cooing quietly and wiping tears from her eyes as the couple carefully picked up their babies. When he noticed Sherlock, too, was swiping at tears, he wordlessly handed his partner a tissue, which Sherlock used and disposed of quickly, to hide the evidence. He needn’t have worried, though, everyone in the room - save for one person of note - was focused on the new lives swaddled in warm blankets, little eyes blinking open and mouths pursing and fists flailing as the newborns tested the limits of their tiny bodies. 

 

Sherlock, despite his best intentions, dropped off to sleep before the new family made to leave, and when John noticed the Omega sagging heavily against him, he made a quiet noise to get everyone’s attention and gestured with a nod toward the door. The new parents, eyes wet and arms and hearts full, looked at the sleeping man with overjoyed smiles and whispered thank-yous as they left the room, leaving Sherlock and John in peace. 

 

Sherlock barely stirred when John tugged the duvet up over him, rolling the Omega onto his side and habitually putting pillows around Sherlock to support his surely aching body. John pressed a kiss to his temple and combed his fingers through dark curls, lingering just a moment longer before seeing the parents and their babies off to their new home. 

 

It was some small, small hour of the morning when John returned to bed, after having taken a shower and tossed the soiled towels into the laundry to soak. Sherlock murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, and John slotted himself behind his partner, wrapping his arms around the exhausted Omega and nuzzling into his neck. Sherlock quieted at the contact and soon was snoring softly, and John smiled as he pressed a few soft kisses to Sherlock’s shoulder blade. Maybe soon, John thought, sometime in the future, it would be his own babies in Sherlock’s belly, and in Sherlock’s arms. 

 

He let out a long, content breath, and drifted off thinking of tow-headed boys and dark-haired girls with curly locks giggling as they ran around the flat. “Someday,” John murmured, and fell asleep. 

 


End file.
